The baptism of six and a half month old Hutson Mills Faucette took place on the second Sunday in September 2011, and Sts. Peter and Paul’s was packed to the rafters. Of course, some will say it was because Bishop Neil Alexander, head of the Atlanta Episcopal diocese, was preaching. Or was it because our grandson was to be baptized? Think what you will.

The weather in Atlanta was perfect and so was Hutson, with nary a whimper as he was handled, fawned over, and immersed by the diminutive resident priest and the hulking bishop. Perhaps it was the baby’s heritage, but he seemed to take it all in stride.

Hutson Mills Faucette, you see, is not just my grandson — he is the great-grandchild (X about 14) of Richard Hutson, born mid-18th century in Charleston, a graduate of Princeton, a South Carolina lawyer and delegate to the Continental Congress, a signer of the Articles of Confederation; Hutson was also the Revolutionary War officer who was captured by the British in Charleston in 1780 and held a prisoner for a time at St. Augustine. After Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown, Hutson returned home and served as Lt. Governor of South Carolina (he could have been governor, but he decided not to run.)

Thomas Jefferson later said, “Many friends and great patriots came from South Carolina. Particularly, Richard Hutson and my student Robert Mills, the architect.” [Mills, with Jefferson and others, created the distinctive federal style of architecture; Mills went on to design the Washington Monument, the campus of the University of South Carolina, plus scores of other historic structures around the country.]

Consequently, the name “Hutson” is a family name of the Faucette clan handed down since the days of illustrous grandpater Richard, and it was only a matter of time before the first progeny of my youngest daughter Alexandra and her husband Dr. Phillip Hutson Faucette would be so named.

The middle name of Mills, I suppose, is a token to my not-so-renowned origins, just in case my notoriety should ever eclipse that of the inestimable Richard (seems hardly likely.) In fact, the only person I can think of with a Christian name “Mills” is the dynamic Mills Lane, a retired boxing referee of international repute and former boxer himself, a two-term Washoe County (Nevada) District Court Judge, and television personality. He is best known for having officiated numerous major heavyweight championship boxing matches in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, and for syndication nationally and on MTV for four years, starring on the television show JUDGE MILLS LANE, in

Mohammed Ali once said, “Mills Lane was the third man in the ring in nearly all my spectacular bouts. When he was there, I always knew it’d be a fair fight — and I would win.”

Young Hutson Mills Faucette’s mother and grandmother conspired to host a brunch/reception at our home after the baptismal service. Without boring my readers with endless lists, aside from family members from Georgia and Tennessee who were easily able to attend, everyone who is anyone, a gathering of the usual suspects, was there. Alex’s sister Barb and her husband Don made every effort, as did my grandson Geoffrey and his family (soon moving to Atlanta from West Palm Beach,) but they could not, for legitimate reasons, make it.

Among the local guests was David Roberts, a lifelong friend and widower of Rev. Patty Roberts, our most cherished confidante and my personal Episcopal priest. David reminded of us something.

“Patty has a special fondness,” he told me, “for Alex and Phillip.”

“I know,” I said, my voice cracking a little. “One of her last duties was to conduct their wedding ceremony back in Ought-Eight.”

“Yes. That’s true,” he sighed. “Did you also know that at the baby shower she gave for Alex she gave Hutson his first baptism?”

“I didn’t know that,” I stated, moderately uncertain even though I’d heard the story before.

“Well, she did. Just before I wheeled her chair to the parking lot, Patty placed her hands on Alex’s tummy, said a prayer — and baptized the baby in gestation. That was truly her last official act. She passed shortly thereafter.”

I have no idea how sound the theology of that occurrance, but a remission in infant Hutson’s life is that he will grow old and have no recollection of the joy he brought to so many people that glorious winter, spring and summer of 2011 — even to the extent of his first recorded words on September 15, 2011 (yes, even at his tender age he called out to his “Da-da!” I have a videotape to prove it.)

Our memory of Hutson’s baptism(s) will sustain us throughout the slings and arrows of outrageous times yet to be revealed. In everone’s lives there are always periods of remorse and unhappiness, such as the heartbreak that occurred on that fateful day ten years earlier.
But when the spark of innocense and youthfulness ignites the glow of true joy, the gloom of impending doom is awash in abundant light, and we will forever manage to find our way to solace in the arms of those who care.